Soul or Not
by gammadolphin
Summary: Sam is still soulless, and things are tense between the Winchester brothers. But what will the man with no feelings do when his older brother falls ill and refuses to ask for the help that he so desperately needs? sick!Dean soulless!Sam
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** The inspiration for this piece kind of struck me out of nowhere. I've always had a fascination with the soulless Sam character, but I've never been able to think of a good story idea for him until now. So I hope you enjoy this one. It is set between Clap Your Hands if You Believe, and Caged Heat, which is very close to the end of Sam's soulless period._

**_Disclaimer: _**_Shocking though this may be to all of you, I do not own Supernatural or its characters_

**_Disclaimer #2: _**_I am not a doctor, nor am I involved in the medical profession in any way. While I tried to be as accurate as possible, all medical information in this story comes from google and the recesses of my mind._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Sam Winchester watched his brother stagger into their motel room, exhaustion written on every line of his face. The older man looked like crap, with yellowed skin and sunken cheeks. It had taken him five minutes to walk from the impala's parking space, a distance that Sam had covered in seconds.

"Something's wrong with you," Sam stated.

Dean looked up from the duffel bag in which he had been rummaging, expression tense.

"Oh?" he snapped. "I didn't realize I was under inspection."

"That's not what I meant," Sam said calmly. "You're sick. I noticed it a week ago, but you're getting worse. You should go to a doctor."

"What?" Dean asked incredulously. "Sam, I'm fine. I don't need some quack telling me that I need to take it easy and lay off the hard stuff."

"You've been moving slower, your skin is getting yellower, I've seen you getting up in the middle of the night to puke. It took your nose two hours to stop bleeding after that vamp caught you in the face two days ago, and your nose wasn't even broken. I can tell you've been feeling like crap. I was going to ignore it, but you're getting worse, and you need to get treated."

"Maybe the reason I feel like crap is because we've been running ourselves into the ground as Crowley's errand boys. You may not need rest, but I do, and I haven't been getting much of it lately."

"Dean," said Sam, exasperated, "I wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't important. You almost crashed the car today because you can't stay focused. Just go to the doctor."

Dean ignored him, grabbing some clothes from his duffel bag and stalking into the bathroom. The sound of the shower running did not quite cover the retching noises as Dean vomited again.

Sam rolled his eyes, exasperated. Dean had been getting more and more irritable lately, undoubtedly getting fed up with dealing with his soulless brother, not to mention working for Crowley, which went against just about every principle he had. But that did not mean that he should just ignore reason. At this rate, he was going to get himself killed before he could die of whatever had turned him into Typhoid Mary.

Oh well. If Dean continued to get worse, Sam would just take him to the hospital himself.

Sam needed to get out for a bit. He scribbled a note to his brother, then shrugged on his jacket and strode out the door to spend a few hours at the bar down the block. He considered picking up a woman to have some fun with, but the options at this particular bar were pretty slim, and he did not feel like putting in the effort. Besides, Dean might need him.

Sam sighed, fingering his third glass of whiskey thoughtfully. Dean thought that his brother didn't care about him, and perhaps he was right, but Sam still felt…something. Perhaps it was the memory of the love that the old Sam had for Dean, or the knowledge that Dean's help was his best chance of getting his soul back. But whatever the reason, Sam wanted Dean to be all right, and felt the need to go check on his brother.

He set a few bills on the table, then walked back to the motel. He frowned, noticing that the impala was missing from where Dean had parked it earlier. The older hunter must have gone out, though an inspection of the room revealed that he had not bothered to leave a note.

Sam sighed. Soulless or not, he still knew how to read his brother. He could tell that Dean was close to giving up on him. He was not sure what to do about it though. Even when he had been trying so hard to fake his old emotions, Dean had known that something was off. And after all the things that Sam had said and done, there was no point in going back to pretending. He just hoped that Crowley gave his soul back before Dean finally decided he'd had enough.

Then Sam heard the familiar rumble of the impala's engine, and Dean walked in a few moments later. Sam gave him a smile, hoping that it could be some kind of peace offering, a sign that he was still trying.

"What?" asked Dean, staring at him.

Apparently not.

Sam let his face relax as Dean went to grab a beer from the fridge. Except he did not grab a beer, he grabbed a bottle of water. Sam glanced at the clock. It was eight thirty; usually Dean would have been on his third drink by now.

"Where were you?" Sam asked.

"Out," Dean replied shortly.

Sam grimaced. If Dean did not want to talk to him, fine. He turned back to his computer, which he had been using to look for cases, especially those of the monstrous variety. His brother ignored him for the rest of the evening, seeming unusually distracted.

Hours later, when Dean had fallen asleep, Sam began to get restless. He hated being cooped up in motel rooms for long periods of time, and not being able to sleep through the boredom made it that much harder.

He stood, beginning to pace back and forth. He picked up Dean's dirty clothes, putting them in the laundry bag. Even without a soul, Sam still had a desire for neatness and order. He continued to tidy the motel room, eventually clearing out a container of takeout leftovers from the fridge that had gone bad. He went to drop the old food into the trashcan, but paused when he saw a flash of color in the bin. He frowned, reaching down to extract what turned out to be a pamphlet.

Sam read through the leaflet, eyes widening when he realized what it was. He glanced over at Dean, whose face was pinched and grim even in sleep.

_How to deal with your diagnosis of acute liver failure._

Sam had known that Dean was sick, but he'd had no idea it was something that serious. Why hadn't he said anything when he got back from the hospital? And why had he thrown the pamphlet detailing his illness and the measures required to treat it into the trash?

Surely…no. Dean could not be stupid enough to let this go untreated. Maybe he was just going to call Cas down to heal him. But there had been complete radio silence from the angel for weeks now, despite the prayers that both Winchesters had been sending. There was no guarantee of help from Cas.

So why wouldn't Dean…? Sam felt a strange pressure in the pit of his stomach. The pamphlet had made it clear that Dean would need a liver transplant, and soon. The Winchesters' aliases were not strong enough to stand up to the scrutiny required to be placed on the transplant list, which meant that it was not an option for Dean. The only other alternative was a partial transplant from a relative. Dean only had one real relative left, and apparently no reason to think that he could expect his brother to fork over half of his liver.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Was Dean right? Sam knew the risks involved in donating an organ, even part of one. He could get an infection or blood clots, not to mention the fact that he would be down an entire lobe of his liver. There were also the weeks of recovery that they would both need, weeks when he would not be able to defend himself. It would be stupid to take that kind of risk.

But…it was Dean. Some part of Sam knew that there would be no point in getting his soul back if he let Dean die before then. And even soulless, Sam was better with Dean; he knew that.

So against his better judgment, Sam grabbed the keys to the impala from the nightstand and left the motel room. He made the fairly quick drive to the hospital listed on Dean's pamphlet and found the appropriate help desk.

"I need you to test me as a potential liver donor for my brother," he barked at the nurse behind the desk. She stared up at him, flustered.

"What?" she asked. Sam held back an impatient growl. Why did everyone have to be so slow?

"My brother, Dean Page, came in here and got diagnosed with acute liver failure. He needs a liver transplant as soon as possible. I would like to give him part of mine, but in order for that to happen, I need to get tested to confirm that I'm a match for him. Do you think you could make that happen for me?"

The woman bristled at the scorn in his voice, but she began tapping at her computer.

"Dean Page?" she confirmed. Sam nodded. "Right. We've got his information on file. It says he left AMA. Dr. Ryan wanted to admit him."

"I can get him back here," Sam promised.

"Okay. Well, I can make an appointment for you to get your physical exam and your blood drawn sometime this week. We have spots open on-"

"You'd better have a spot open now," Sam interrupted coldly. "Because that's the only time soon enough for me. Did you miss the 'acute' part of my brother's diagnosis? His clock is ticking."

"Sir, I understand that, but it's the middle of the night, you can't just-"

Sam shoved his FBI badge under her nose.

"This is a hospital. I know that there are still doctors and nurses here. I don't care if it's inconvenient, I care about getting it done."

The nurse went cross-eyed staring at his badge. They both knew that FBI status did not give Sam the right to completely ignore hospital protocol, especially when it was not related to a case, but Sam had been intimidating enough that the nurse did not protest further. She just cleared her throat and pushed a button on her phone.

"Judy, I'm sending a man back to you, by the name of Samuel Page. He needs a rush job on a donor match."

"What?" asked an incredulous voice over the speaker.

"Just do it," the other nurse snapped, pushing the button again to end the call. She looked up at Sam with a pained smile. "Go right on back," she said, her voice strained. "Down the hall, fourth door on the left."

Sam strode past her without another word or glance. He heard her muttering about him as he passed, but he could not have cared less. He found the door that she had indicated, pushing it open and entering the small and empty examination room.

A minute later, another nurse entered, presumably Judy. She gave Sam a flustered smile, which he did not return.

"Uh, hi. I'm Judy," she told him. "You must be Samuel Page."

"Sam."

"Right. Well I'll be doing your bloodwork and preliminary physical exam today…er, tonight."

She giggled nervously, and Sam raised an eyebrow. Did she expect him to apologize for the inconvenience? She would be waiting for a very long time, if that were the case.

"Um, so I'll need to take your family history first," she went on when it became clear that Sam would not respond. "Has there been any cancer in your family?"

"You do realize that I'm here for my brother, right?" Sam asked, as if her were talking to a five year old. "We have the same family history, and I assume his was taken when he came in today for a diagnosis."

Judy got even more flustered then, and Sam got the feeling that the old him would have felt sorry for her. All he cared about though was getting this done with maximum efficiency.

"I'll save you some time," he said. "My family history is already on file. As far as I know, there've been no serious illnesses that would have genetic implications. The people in my family don't really live long enough to die of natural causes. As for my personal history; I'm perfectly healthy. I've never had any heart or liver problems, or any issues with blood clotting. I haven't taken any drugs, prescription or otherwise, within the past year, except for reasonable amounts of painkillers. I don't smoke, and I'm not an alcoholic. I did have a few drinks today though, so those'll show up on my screening. I don't have diabetes or any other preexisting conditions or STDs. Does that about cover it?"

Judy just nodded mutely, setting down the clipboard of papers that she had been holding. She directed Sam to the scale in the corner, where she measured his height and weight, then took his blood pressure before tying a tourniquet around his bicep, making his veins stand out prominently. She inserted a needle into Sam's arm, and the hunter watched his scarlet blood flow into the collection tubes. Once Judy had collected four vials of blood, she withdrew the needle carefully and taped a piece of gauze over the spot.

"Right," she said, trying valiantly to cling to her chipper attitude. "That's everything for now. I'll send these to the lab, and they'll call you when-"

"I'll wait," Sam interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll wait here in the hospital for the results."

"Mr. Page, it usually takes days to process-"

"It's Agent Page. And I don't care how long it usually takes. I'm telling you that it's not going to take that long this time. I'll see you in a few hours."

He walked out of the door, leaving the stunned nurse in his wake.

ooooooooooooo

Sam smiled to himself when he saw Judy hurrying towards him less than three hours later. He did not know why Dean disapproved of his methods so much; they were undeniably effective. He stood to meet Judy.

"Good news, Agent Page," she said, waving the stack of papers clutched in her hand. "You're an excellent match for your brother, and you appear to be in great health."

"When can we come in for the surgery?" Sam asked, mildly surprised by the feeling of relief that seeped through him at the nurse's words. He had not realized that he had been worried.

"Don't you want to discuss this with Dean first?" Judy asked.

"No."

"Okay. Well, um," Judy fumbled with the pages in her hands before extracting two packets of paper, which she gave to Sam. "Here is some more information about the donating process, as well as pre-op instructions for you and your brother, assuming that everything is cleared. Dean's doctor will want to look both of you over before the surgery so that he can make sure that you're both suitable candidates for it."

"Fine. We'll be here tomorrow."

The nurse looked like she was about to protest, then she just sighed.

"Eleven o'clock?" she asked.

"Ten."

Judy just nodded in defeat and Sam walked away. He drove back to the motel, unsurprised to find Dean awake and waiting for him.

"Where were you?" the older hunter asked, annoyed and exhausted. Sam knew it was a sign of how bad his brother was feeling that Dean did not stand up to confront him. Sam had taken the impala without asking, which was a punching offense under other circumstances.

"Same place you were earlier today," he said coolly. Dean blanched.

"You went to the hospital? How did you even know I was there?"

Sam snorted.

"Throwing away your treatment pamphlet in the trashcan of the room that we share wasn't exactly the most effective way of getting rid of the evidence," he said scornfully. Dean glowered at him.

"Well excuse me for not thinking straight when I'd just had a death sentence placed on my head!" he snapped. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. It's not a death sentence."

"Liver failure, Sam!" Dean was shouting now. "_Acute_ liver failure. I've got days, a week or two if I'm lucky!"

"Unless you get a transplant," said Sam calmly.

"You and I both know there's no chance of me getting on the transplant list." The fight left Dean as suddenly as it came, and the man slumped back in his chair, defeated.

"Yeah. If only you had a brother who had a perfectly healthy liver that he could share with you."

Dean's head snapped up, his gaze locking on Sam.

"You would do that?" he asked, and his disbelief bothered Sam for some reason.

"I already got tested," Sam told him. "We're a good match. We have an appointment with your doctor at ten tomorrow."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Here, the nurse gave me instructions for you. Depending on what the doc says, we can probably get the surgery sometime this week."

Dean stared down at the papers that Sam handed to him.

"I…I don't know what to say, Sam," he said, his voice rough.

Sam sighed. He had been hoping to avoid an emotional exchange, but apparently dying had made Dean sappy.

"You don't have to say anything," he told Dean. "This is the decision that makes the most sense."

And it was, mostly, though logic was not really Sam's only motivator. But he did not want Dean to expect further affection from him.

"Yeah, well, thanks," said Dean. Sam nodded.

"You should go back to sleep," he told his brother. "I don't think tomorrow's going to be fun."

ooooooooooooo

Sam turned out to be exactly right. Not only did Dean feel exponentially worse in the morning, but he and Sam both needed to undergo numerous tests, confirming that they were a good enough match that Dean's body would not reject Sam's liver, and that they were both suitable candidates for the procedures that they needed. After being poked with a ludicrous amount of needles, sent through a CT machine, and sacrificing far too many bodily fluids, both brothers were admitted to the hospital, and Dean started on a medication to help with the effects of his illness. The boys were given a double room, where they would stay until their surgeries, which were scheduled for the next day. This was faster than usual, but Dean's steadily worsening condition had forced his doctor's hands.

The brothers waited together, mostly in silence, occasionally interrupted by doctors or nurses checking on their conditions and explaining their situations and treatment options with more detail. Dean passed the time by watching the horrendous hospital drama that he was not-so-secretly obsessed with. Sam did not understand his brother's fascination with the show. Aside from the ridiculous name (Dr. Sexy MD, _really_?), Sam would have thought that the whole thing would be ruined for Dean after he got shot on Gabriel's twisted version of the show. But nope. Dean's passion still burned strong.

Sam settled for trying to tune out the noise as he worked on his laptop. They would both have to stay in the hospital for a while after their surgeries, but Sam wanted to have a case to work once they had recovered. He had found a few possible options by nightfall, which was when Dean suggested that they call Bobby.

"Why?" Sam asked. "What good will that do?"

Dean sighed, and Sam could tell that he was grumpy, probably from hunger. Neither of them was allowed to eat before their operation.

"Because he's like our father, Sam, and he cares about what happens to us. He'll want to know about something this major. Besides, we're going to be out of commission for a while. We can stay at his place while we recover."

He had a point, so Sam waited as Dean dialed Bobby's number, putting the old hunter on speaker.

"Yeah?" Bobby said by way of greeting.

"Hey Bobby, it's Dean. Sam's here and you're on speaker."

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked immediately.

"Why does something have to be wrong?" said Dean defensively.

"So nothing's wrong?" Bobby's tone was skeptical.

"Well, I didn't say that."

Bobby sighed, and Sam could practically see him rolling his eyes.

"So what is it?"

"We're in the hospital."

Dean held the phone further away from him as Bobby's voice increased significantly in volume.

"Both of you? What damn fool mess did you idjits get yourselves into this time?"

"Turns out that mainlining alcohol and painkillers hasn't been so great for Dean's liver," Sam cut in, leaning towards his brother's bed and the outstretched phone. "He's in liver failure."

Dean gave his brother a look as Bobby cursed over the phone.

"Do you need a donor? How long will it take to find one for you?" the older man asked, concerned.

"Why does no one think of me?" asked Sam, mildly indignant. "I'm his donor, Bobby. The surgery is tomorrow morning. We're only calling you because Dean thought you'd want to know about it."

"You're damn right I want to know about it. Where are you? I'll drive out to meet you."

Dean gave Bobby the address, which was only a few hours away from Sioux Falls, then hung up after goodbyes were exchanged.

"It'll be good to have him around," said Dean, setting his phone on his bedside table.

"Yeah." Sam's tone was less enthusiastic. He knew that Bobby was uneasy around him, perhaps with good reason. But they would need his help.

Silence stretched between the brothers, until Dean let out a bitter chuckle.

"What?" Sam asked. Dean shook his head.

"Nothing. It's just…our luck, man. I mean, I'm in a hospital because my liver crapped out on me, next to my little brother who lost his soul in the freakin apocalypse. Just, what the hell, you know?"

Sam merely shrugged.

"Life's a bitch," he said simply, choosing to ignore the jab at his soullessness.

"Ain't that the truth," Dean agreed.

After another moment of silence, Sam asked the question that had been plaguing him all day.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

"For my liver? The doctor had to have told you that any siblings were your best shot. Why weren't you even going to give me the chance? Did you think I would say no, or did you not want me to take the risk?"

Dean sighed.

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe a little bit of both."

Dean sounded so exhausted that Sam decided to leave it at that. The two of them lapsed back into silence, staying that way until Dean fell asleep. Sam simply watched the shadows on the wall move as cars passed by on the street below.

He wondered again what he was doing there. Surely he was not about to risk his life out of familial loyalty? He would not have done this for Samuel Campbell, had the old man been the one to get sick. Of course, neither he nor Dean had considered their grandfather as a potential donor because they both knew that he was even more unlikely than Sam to put himself on the line like that, especially for a man who was essentially a stranger to him, so perhaps it was not the same situation. It also was not the same as when Sam risked his life on hunts. That was a simple cost-benefit analysis. The more threats he neutralized, the more lives he saved. Besides, he enjoyed the work, the hunting.

But with Dean, there was only one life on the line. Either Sam risked his life and health to give his brother a shot at recovery, and Dean got better, or he didn't, and Dean died. There would be no other fallout, not really. So why wasn't the second option an option at all?

Sam thought back to his time with a soul, an activity that he rarely took part in. At every stage of his life, Dean had been there, supporting him, caring for him. Dean had given everything for Sam, time and again, and he never asked for anything in return. Sam would always owe him; there was no getting around that, no paying him back. But he could try. He could give Dean his liver, and when they were both recovered, he would work even harder at giving him his little brother back.

Thoughts of family and old loyalties and days gone by chased themselves around Sam's head as the sun came up, bringing with it the day of the brothers' surgeries.

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_**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I know that even with all the bullying he did, Sam would probably not be able to make things happen as fast as he did, but I was using my artistic license and I invite you all to suspend your disbelief right along with me. This story is going to have at least one or two more chapters, which I will try my best to get posted shortly. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. Thanks!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Can't a guy get breakfast in bed around here?" were Dean's first words once he rejoined the land of the conscious. Sam rolled his eyes.

"We can't eat today, Dean," he reminded his brother.

He grimaced when he registered how bad Dean looked. The hunter's skin had yellowed even further since yesterday, and the sickly tinge had crept into his eyes as well. He looked like a ghoulish version of himself. Sam supposed that was the 'acute' part of his liver failure. Most people took weeks or months to get this bad, but it had only been a matter of days for Dean. The Winchesters were just lucky like that.

"Quit picking at that," he chided when Dean scratched the IV that was taped to his arm. Dean rolled his eyes, but took his hand away.

They were both quiet, but then a thought seemed to occur to Dean.

"Hey. You'll be under for this, won't you?" he said suddenly.

"The surgery? I should certainly hope so."

Thanks to Lucifer, Sam knew exactly what it felt like to have his liver ripped out while he was awake, but he had no desire to repeat the experience.

"Yeah, but you don't sleep. Will the anesthesia even work on you?"

"It should. I've gotten knocked out on hunts before, and stayed unconscious for the amount of time a normal person would. I think my body still knows how to sleep, it just doesn't need to anymore. But the drugs should work."

They both elected to ignore the time when Dean himself had been the one to knock Sam out. The younger hunter remembered the brutality with which his brother had punched him over and over, incensed by what Sam had become and needing to contain him until he could seek help from Castiel.

"Oh. Good," said Dean. "Well, if it looks like you won't go under in there, just tell the doctors to call it off."

"I'll be fine, Dean," said Sam impatiently. His brother was the one dying of liver disease, and he was still pointlessly worried about Sam.

"You'd better be. I've put way too much effort into you to have you croak on me."

"Yeah well, that goes both ways. You had damn well better not reject my liver after all this trouble."

"Yeah, it'd sure be a shame if your perfectly good organ went to waste in the event of my tragic death."

"I'm glad we understand each other."

Dean snorted, but he did not seem angry. There was a pause, but then Sam asked the question that had occurred to him while Dean had been sleeping.

"Are you sure you want this, Dean?" he asked. His brother stared at him.

"A lifesaving operation? Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm still infected with demon blood, Dean. That means my liver is too."

Understanding dawned on Dean's face, and the older man looked even sicker than he had before.

"Oh," he whispered.

"Yeah," muttered Sam. "Look, I'm still willing to go through with this, but if you'd rather…"

If he'd rather what? Let himself die instead of being infected? It was not the logical choice, but Dean could be odd that way. Sam did not know if this was a step that his brother was willing to take.

Apparently Dean did not quite know either. He was silent for several minutes, staring at his IV dripping into his arm and casting the occasional glance over at Sam. But eventually he took a deep breath, and Sam knew that the decision had been made.

"If you could beat the demon blood, then so can I," he said firmly.

"Are you sure?" Sam checked again. He did not want Dean blaming him for any side effects or consequences later. "You're not worried that it'll make you less human?"

"It never did that to you."

Sam snorted derisively.

"Yes it did, Dean," he said. "We both know it did."

Dean grimaced.

"Yeah well, like I said, you beat it. And if it does something to me, which it might not, I can beat it too."

Sam studied his brother carefully. All he could read in Dean's face was determination.

"Okay."

And that was the end of it.

The brothers waited quietly together as their scheduled surgery times drew nearer. The doctor came to check on them one more time, proclaiming them both to be ready, but they still had to wait for another hour or so before the nurses came to collect Sam, whose surgery would start slightly before Dean's. As Sam was being wheeled out of the room on his bed, which was ridiculous since he could walk perfectly well on his own, Dean stopped the procession.

"Wait," he called. The nurses, apparently wanting to give the brothers a moment alone, walked down the hall. "Thank you for this, Sam," Dean said earnestly. "I mean it, whatever your reasons are."

"You'd do the same for me," Sam stated.

"Yeah, but I have a soul."

"So will I, eventually."

Dean smiled.

"Damn straight," he said. "See you on the flip side, Sammy."

Sam did not miss the fact that this was the first time Dean had called him Sammy since he had found out about his missing soul.

"Bye, Dean."

He waved to the nurses, who nodded their understanding and resumed their journey to the pre-op area.

For all that his surgery was scheduled for the morning, it was almost noon by the time Sam was wheeled into the operating room itself. He was greeted by the team of doctors and nurses that would be operating on him, then he was finally allowed to stand, if only for the few steps it took to get him to the operating table.

Sam lay back, resisting the urge to fight off the anesthesiologist who reached down to put a mask over his face. He hated this feeling of vulnerability, of trusting his life to complete strangers. As the needle that would be administering his drugs was slipped into his arm, Sam felt a strange surge of uncertainty. What if the medicine didn't work? What if he could feel the whole thing?

_Then you'll suck it up,_ he told himself firmly. He had been through worse, and Dean needed this. His brother would totally owe him though.

But as Sam felt the burn of drugs travelling through his veins, he realized that it was a moot point. The meds carried with them an irresistible drowsiness, and soon the voices of the people around him faded, and Sam slipped into the unfamiliar blackness of unconsciousness.

ooooooooooooo

Fidgeting hurt, so Dean just tapped one finger restlessly against his leg. The nurses had only taken his brother a few minutes ago, and he knew that there was no way that Sam was in surgery yet, but he was still worried. He wished that he could have been the first one to get put to sleep, but nothing else had been going his way, so why should it start now?

Dean sighed, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling tiles above him. How had all of this happened? Two weeks ago he had been fine, physically at least. All he had been worried about was saving his little brother. Then he had come down with what he thought was just a flu; he had been exhausted and nauseous and had just wanted to stay in bed watching bad TV. But he didn't, because he couldn't, because Sammy's soul was still burning in hell, and now Dean knew how to get it out, so how could he stop? Besides, he had to minimize the amount of time that fake Sam – RoboSam, as Dean had taken to calling him in his mind – had to inflict damage.

But then the ever-observant RoboSam had noticed Dean's condition, and recognized how serious it was. Dean had not believed him, had not wanted to believe him. But then he had gone to take a shower, and had not even made it under the spray of water before he threw up for the fifth time that week. Except this time, the vomit was tinged red with what Dean knew was blood. It was then that he had known it was time to go to the hospital.

So he had, and he'd let the doctors poke and prod at him, had even let them inject him with some dye so that they could scan his whole body. All of the data they collected added up to one immutable fact; Dean was dying.

He had stopped listening to Dr. Ryan when the older man had told him that he needed a new liver. He knew that he had no chance of getting on the transplant list. Besides, he had not wanted to take an organ that would otherwise have gone to an innocent civilian who probably deserved it more than him.

Dean's doctor had asked him if he had any living parents or siblings. Dean had told him no. His brother was dead, and he had no reason to believe that Sam's stand-in would consider giving up half of his liver for a man that he did not have the capacity to care about. Besides, he could not ask that of him.

So Dean had simply left, refusing the meds that the doctor had tried to give him to combat the symptoms of his liver failure. If he was going to die, he did not want to prolong it painfully with drugs.

He sent up prayer after prayer to Cas, but his friend must have been pretty deep in his civil war, because he did not respond.

Dean made the resolution that before he died, he was going to find some way to free Sam from hell. Whether he himself was going upstairs or down, he could not die knowing that he had doomed his brother to an eternity of torment.

It took all of ten minutes for Dean to realize the futility of that plan. He had almost passed out walking through the hospital parking lot to his car. He was in no shape to be rescuing anyone, and he was only going to get worse. He just had to hope that Castiel could figure out a way to save Sam, once he had gotten heaven straightened out. The angel owed him that, at least.

Dean had gotten back to the motel, and had been even more short-tempered than usual with RoboSam. The icy hunter was just another reminder of Dean's failure to help the real Sam. Dean did not want to tell the younger man about his diagnosis. RoboSam was not a big fan of weakness, and Dean did not want to give him a reason to leave. So he had just thrown away the pamphlet of treatment instructions and fallen asleep, unable and unwilling to keep his eyes open for another minute.

Then he had woken to find Sam gone. This was not all that unusual, but that night it bothered Dean. He was dying, and Sam was off doing god only knew what.

So he had been stunned when Sam came back and gave him the news. Not only had he learned of Dean's condition, he had taken his brother's treatment into his own hands. Dean did not want to think about what his brother had done in the hospital to get the results so fast, and he could not bring himself to care. He could not believe that Sam, soulless, emotionless RoboSam, had worked so hard for him, and was willing to risk his own health to help Dean.

It had made him realize that perhaps there was more of the Sammy that Dean knew and loved lingering in his soulless shell than Dean had originally thought. Maybe part of his little brother really was still in there.

Which of course had made him more reluctant to let the doctors cut into the younger man and pull him apart. But Dean could tell that Sam's mind was made up, and soul or not, Sam was the most stubborn person he knew. And truthfully, Dean did not want to die. So he had gone back to sleep, feeling safer than he had since he had first realized what Sam had become, and knowing that his road to recovery would start in the morning.

Dean grimaced, the memory of just what that morning had brought rushing back to him in painful detail.

"_Get up, Dean."_

_Dean groaned as his brother's voice jarred him back to consciousness. Then he yelled in pain as his ailing body made itself known. It felt like a hundred knives were stabbing him in the abdomen._

"_Dean?"_

_He blinked open his watering eyes to find himself face to face with Sam, who was crouching beside his bed._

"_You okay?"_

"_Do I look okay, Sam?" he choked out._

"_No, you look like shit."_

_Dean glared at him, curling in on himself as if that would lessen the pain. It didn't._

_He could feel Sam studying him, then the obnoxiously healthy man reached over and grabbed the trashcan from next to the door. He put it on the ground beside Dean's head._

"_I don't need-"_

_Dean's protest was cut off by the fountain of liquid that spurted from his mouth. The fluid was mostly blood, as it had been days since Dean had eaten much of anything._

_Sam just watched him until he coughed up the last of the blood, then leaned forward and scooped Dean up as easily as if he were picking up a cardboard box._

"_Sam, what the hell? Put me down; I can walk."_

_Sam ignored him, probably because they both knew it was a lie. He carried Dean out to the car, which he had already packed, then strapped his older brother into the passenger seat. Dean was thankful that he had chosen to sleep in sweats and a t-shirt instead of just boxers, as he sometimes did. He felt a little guilty about leaving a trashcan full of blood for the cleaning staff to find, but he had greater concerns, chief among them not dying before they got to the hospital._

_With RoboSam behind the wheel, it only took them ten minutes to get to the hospital. The doctors took care of Dean, putting him on all of the meds that they had wanted to give him the day before. While the drugs made him feel marginally better, it was obvious to everyone that things needed to happen fast._

And now there Dean was, listening to the drip of his IV and the gentle beeping of his monitors as he grew more and more impatient for news of his brother.

_Don't be ridiculous,_ he chided himself. Sam would be fine. Not even losing part of an organ could slow down the terminator that he had become. For the first time since he had learned about it, Dean was a bit grateful for Sam's soullessness. At least he knew that his brother was not afraid.

Dean was pulled from his thoughts by a call from the side of the room.

"Dean?"

The hunter was alarmed by how much effort it took to turn his head towards the familiar voice. His cracked lips stretched into a smile when he caught sight of Bobby standing in the doorway.

"Hey Bobby," he greeted warmly.

"Damn, boy," muttered Bobby. He walked forward and grabbed the chair from the corner of the room, dragging it to the side of Dean's bed before he sank into it, staring at the young man he had all but adopted as his own. "You look like hell."

"I'm still better looking than you, Ironsides," retorted Dean. Despite the fact that Bobby had been out of his wheelchair for more than a year, the nickname had stuck.

Bobby ignored the jab.

"Seriously Dean, are you sure you're gonna bounce back from this?"

"Well, thanks to Sam, I'm gonna live long enough to try."

"I guess so. He in surgery yet?"

"I doubt it. They only took him back half an hour ago, and they said it would take a while for them to get him prepped."

Bobby nodded. He glanced at the space where Sam's bed had been.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get here," he said gruffly. "I had to get everything settled on my end; find someone to man the phones for me. Then there was a bridge out that really threw me for a loop."

"It's okay, Bobby. Not much you could have done anyway."

"I guess not. You call Cas?"

"Only every twenty minutes," said Dean, trying to tamp down his bitterness. He knew that Cas was busy fighting a civil war of celestial proportions, but it still hurt that his friend could not take the time to save his life. Judging by Bobby's face, he felt the same way. But the older hunter said nothing more, simply settling in to wait with Dean.

Neither of them were big on pointless chatter, but Dean could not help bringing up the issue that had been plaguing him since he and Sam had talked that morning.

"Do you…do you think there's a chance that Sam's liver could infect me with demon blood?" he asked, trying to sound casual but suspecting that he failed miserably. He could not look at Bobby as the older hunter pondered the question.

"Huh," he said at last. "It's possible, I guess."

"Yeah, that's what we thought too," said Dean, finally turning his head to meet Bobby's gaze. "What do you think it'll do to me?"

"Nothing that you don't let it."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Bobby's nonchalance. The older man raised his eyebrow back, as if daring Dean to argue with him. Dean sighed. He should have known better than to expect sympathy for something that might happen. And truthfully, Bobby's confidence was encouraging.

They were both silent after that, Dean simply taking comfort in Bobby's presence as he waited. Ten minutes later, two nurses arrived in the doorway, presumably to take him to get prepped for his surgery.

"How's my brother?" Dean asked immediately.

"He just went under," one of the nurses told him as she and her partner prepared him to be transported.

Dean relaxed slightly. At least the anesthesia had worked on Sam.

"Now we've got to get you all prepped so that the doctors can remove your bad liver and get you ready to accept your brother's good one."

Dean raised an eyebrow at the other nurse, who had just spoken to him as if he were five years old and had not had the procedure explained to him a dozen times. Maybe she usually worked in pediatrics. Her next words made him like her better.

"We'll make sure Sam is in the bed next to yours when you're in recovery. You'll see him when you wake up."

"Thanks."

Dean grew more and more nervous as he was wheeled to the OR. He hated hospitals on general principle, but he hated surgery even more. He'd had a bad reaction to anesthesia when he had gotten his tonsils removed, and he'd been in a coma for a week, bedridden for a month after that. He just really did not like surgery. But he also did not like dying, so he did not have much of a choice.

The last thing that Dean thought as he lay on the operating table, drugs pulling him into sleep, was that he really hoped he did not reject Sam's liver. His brother would kill him.

ooooooooooooo

"_Dean? Mr. Page? Can you open your eyes for us, Dean?"_

_Dean wished they would leave him alone. He was feeling good, floating in a peaceful sea of painlessness. But the voices were like barbs, jabbing into him and dragging him back to harsh and uncomfortable reality._

_He groaned, but they would not leave him alone, calling his name over and over. Eventually he dragged his eyes open just to shut them up, but he did not really register his surroundings._

"_You did great, Dean. Everything looks good."_

_The words sent a surge of relief and satisfaction through him, even though he could not remember what they were talking about. But whatever it was, he had done well. And with that, he let himself fall back into that peaceful darkness._

ooooooooooooo

Dean wondered absently who had set his side on fire. He owed a serious ass-kicking to whoever it was. Once he had submerged himself in ice water, that is.

Then he registered the beeping of hospital machines, and the memory of the ordeal of the last few days came flooding back to him. He fought his way through the haze of drugs to open his eyes.

He regretted the decision instantly, snapping his eyes shut against the abrupt flood of blinding light. After a few moments, he tried again, easing his eyes open more carefully this time. He took in the rather dull sight of the recovery ward. He supposed the fact that he was still alive meant that his surgery had been a success. He had the vague recollection of waking up once before, when the anesthesiologist had made him open his eyes to make sure that she had not killed him or put him in a coma. Something about everything looking good. Of course, he always looked good, so that might not have been important.

Dean remembered the nurse's promise to put him in the bed next to Sam's. He turned his head to both sides, frowning when he did not see his gargantuan brother.

"Sam?" he called, grimacing when his voice came out as a dry croak. His mouth felt dry and disgusting, but there was no water in sight. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Sam?"

A nurse, noticing that he was awake, hurried to his side.

"Mr. Page?" he asked cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"

"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded. "They told me he'd be here."

The nurse's smile slipped, and Dean's stomach dropped.

"What happened to him?" he croaked, trying to push himself upright.

The nurse hurried to hold him in place, which turned out to be unnecessary because the movement stoked the fire in Dean's side to a raging blaze. Dean sat back, gasping. He fixed the nurse with the most intimidating glare he could muster.

"Where is Sam?" he asked again, his tone dangerous.

"I should let the doctor explain-"

"Tell me."

The nurse sighed, glancing around as if hoping that someone would bail him out. No one did.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Page," he said, backing away. "I'll go tell Dr. Ryan that you're awake."

He turned and all but ran away. Dean stared after him, his growing fear distracting him from the pain of his injuries.

What the hell had happened to Sam? This procedure was supposed to be safe for him.

If no one was going to talk to Dean, he would just have to find his brother on his own. The hunter pulled in a deep breath, gripping the railings on his bed tightly as he prepared himself for the agony of sitting up again.

"Don't even think about it, idjit."

"Bobby?" Dean breathed, whipping his head around to see the older man hurrying towards him.

"Now I know I didn't just see you trying to get out of this bed after you just had your liver replaced."

Dean ignored his friend's warning tone.

"I have to find Sam, Bobby," he said urgently. "Something's wrong with him, and they won't tell me what."

"I was just talking with Sam's doctor," Bobby said soothingly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, probably to make sure that he did not try to move again.

"And?" Dean demanded impatiently. Was he going to have to start pulling teeth to get some straight answers around here?

"Sam did fine with his surgery. They got the lobe of his liver out and closed him up. Everything was routine."

"Then what happened? Why won't anyone tell me where Sam is?"

"Because Sam threw a blood clot after they got him off the operating table."

Dean's heart thudded painfully. Blood clotting was one of those risks that the doctors had told Sam about when they were making sure that he was willing to donate. They said it was rare, but serious. Sometimes deadly serious.

"Bobby," Dean's voice came out in a rough whisper. "Is he…?"

"He's alive, son."

Bobby's words should have been reassuring, but his drawn and worried face indicated otherwise.

"But…?"

"The blood clot went to his brain. The doctors got it out eventually, but they don't know how much damage it caused."

Dean just stared up at the older man, waiting for him to spell it out. Bobby heaved a deep sigh, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

"Sam's in a coma, Dean," he went on eventually. "And the doctors aren't sure if he'll wake up."

* * *

_**A/N: **Sorry about the somewhat cliche cliffhanger. I couldn't resist. I will try to get the last chapter up shortly. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** Welcome to the final chapter of this story! I just wanted to reiterate the fact that I am manipulating the medical facts a bit for the sake of the story. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Dean stared at his unconscious brother, struggling to process this new turn of events. He'd had to fight hard to convince the doctors to take him to Sam's room in the ICU, but he had needed to see his brother, to assess his condition for himself. And now the selfish part of him was wishing that he had not come.

He had not been prepared for what he found. Sam looked…like Sam. He looked like the little brother that Dean had not seen in a year and a half. Perhaps it was because he was asleep, and his cold and calculating eyes were hidden behind closed lids. Except he was not asleep; he was in a coma, and there was a cannula of oxygen stretched across his peaceful face and a dozen wires leading from his body.

Dean clenched his fists, longing for an enemy to punch. But there was none, because Dean's body was the traitor, and it was his fault that that this had happened to Sam.

He heard a throat being cleared behind him.

"Hey Bobby," he acknowledged without taking his gaze from his brother.

"How're you holding up, kid?" the older hunter asked.

"This should have been me."

Bobby sighed.

"Sam knew the risks when he agreed to the surgery," he said.

Dean snorted, wincing as the action sent a tremor of pain through his body.

"Yeah, and he did it anyway. What does that say to you?"

"Dean…"

"It was still him, Bobby. He was different, but some part of Sam was still in there. And now even that might be gone. Because of me."

"We'll figure something out, Dean," Bobby promised. "We'll find a way to help him if the doctors can't."

Dean shook his head in hopeless frustration.

"_Look_ at me, Bobby," he said softly, gazing up at his friend through eyes that were still slightly yellow with jaundice. "What use can I be to him?"

He'd had to be wheeled here in his bed, for crying out loud.

"None yet," Bobby admitted. "But you'll get better, Dean. Because of Sam, you'll get better, and we'll find a way to help your brother."

Dean did not quite believe Bobby, but it was not like he had many other choices. While he did not plan on staying in his hospital bed for as long as the doctors had recommended, he knew that there was no way he could move yet. He did demand to share a room with Sam again though. It pained him to see his brother in a coma, but it was better than being separated and worrying constantly.

Bobby stayed with the boys, making sure that Dean had everything he needed. He was hovering, but Dean could not bring himself to mind. But he did insist that Bobby go to a motel to get some rest when night fell. The old man groused a bit, but they both knew that there was nothing he could do for either of his boys in the hospital.

"I'll look into some options for Sam," he promised on his way out. Dean just nodded, doubting that he would find anything.

Dean was exhausted, but sleep was still a long time in coming. He found himself staring at Sam's monitors, watching the green line of his brother's pulse jump up and down steadily. Eventually the soothing rhythm lulled him slowly into sleep.

ooooooooooooooooo

Dean's initial recovery was textbook, and didn't that just figure, because Sam's was anything but. In the days after the surgeries, the younger Winchester remained comatose and unresponsive, and none of the tests that the doctors kept running showed any signs of improvement or change.

Bobby was at the hospital almost constantly during the daylight hours, except for when he was in a library or on the phone, looking for a way to help Sam. But he could not find anything that did not come with one hell of a price tag.

So they waited, and watched as Sam's skin grew paler and his cheeks more sunken and his eyes remained stubbornly closed. The doctors had suggested moving Dean to a different room so that he would not have to watch his brother's deterioration, but they had only made that mistake once.

A few days had passed when woke up to the wailing of an alarm.

His eyes snapped open in an automatic response to the noise, but it took a moment for his brain to catch up with what he was seeing. And then he went cold. Because the alarm was coming from one of Sam's monitors, and people were flooding into the room.

"What's happening?" Dean demanded, elevating his bed because he still could not even sit up on his own.

Nobody answered him, so he just stared in horror as the doctor and nurses swarmed around his brother. His stomach dropped when he saw one of the nurses hand a set of paddles to the doctor.

Dean looked at Sam's heart monitor, which confirmed his worst fear.

That steady green line had gone flat.

Sam's heart had stopped.

Sam's heart had stopped.

_Sam's heart had stopped._

"Please," Dean whispered, not sure whom he was talking to as he watched the doctor press the paddles to Sam's chest.

He heard the dull thunk of the defibrillator, and saw Sam's torso arch up ever so slightly. Dean realized that he was holding his breath as he locked his gaze on his brother's monitor again, waiting for the reassuring rhythm that had eased him to sleep to start up again.

It didn't.

Dean heard the soft curse of the doctor, before the man ordered for the paddles to be charged again.

Dean finally resumed breathing after the second charge restarted Sam's heart. The relief on the nurses' faces helped him to relax further. It also told him that it was safe to distract them.

"What just happened?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.

The doctor sighed, turning slowly to meet Dean's gaze.

"It's what we were afraid of, Mr. Page," he said solemnly. "Your brother's condition is worsening. His brain is having trouble maintaining his necessary vital functions, like keeping his heart beating."

"So what does that mean?" Dean asked breathlessly, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"It means that you have a decision to make."

"What?"

"This incident has made it clear that just waiting and hoping for the best isn't a viable option. Sam needs life support. It's your decision whether or not you want to put him on it."

Dean stared at him speechlessly for a moment.

"Of course I want you to put him on it," he said angrily.

The doctor sighed.

"Mr. Page, you have to understand; there's no guarantee that your brother will wake up," he said. "Especially since the fact that his heart stopped indicates that his brain is in even worse shape than we thought. At this point, life support would essentially just be keeping his body alive. Sam probably isn't there anymore."

Dean resisted the urge to tell the doctor that Sam had not been there for more than a year, but that had not stopped either of them. Instead, he just leaned as far towards the man as he could.

"You listen to me," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "My brother is not dying because of me." _Not again_. "Sam is the toughest, most stubborn fighter I have ever met. So you put him on the damn life support, and you give him the chance to fight."

"All right," said the doctor with a sigh. He turned back to the medical staff surrounding Sam's bed, who had been studiously pretending not to listen. "You heard the man. Take Sam to the cardiac ICU and get him set up."

And with that, Sam was wheeled away. Dean watched him go, a pain that had nothing to do with his recent surgery lancing through him. The doctor gave him a sympathetic glance. But Dean did not want sympathy. Sympathy meant that there was no chance.

"We'll do everything we can for your brother," the doctor promised.

But Dean could see it in his eyes; he thought Sam's case was hopeless. He walked out, leaving Dean alone with far too many thoughts. He considered calling Bobby, but he did not want to hear his friend tell him that maybe it was time to give up on Sam.

"My, my," said a slimy voice from the corner. "Things aren't looking good for moose, are they?"

Dean's entire body tensed painfully, and he reached for a weapon that he was not carrying. He gritted his teeth.

"What do you want, Crowley?" he spat at the demon that had materialized in his room.

"You know, I'm impressed," the king of hell said. "You two have managed to make yourselves even more useless than you were before. I didn't think that was possible."

"I cannot even begin to tell you how much I'm not in the mood for this," said Dean.

"Not in the mood for saving your brother?"

That got Dean's attention.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Well, you didn't think I came here to gloat, did you?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, I did mostly come to gloat," the demon admitted shamelessly. "But I'm also here to take care of my investments."

"What the hell are you talking about?" growled Dean, already tired of being in the same room as Crowley.

"I'm saying that I'm not done with you and Robocop yet," Crowley said as if he were talking to a seven year old. "Thick as you may be, you were tolerably efficient at bringing me creatures. It would be annoying to have to find another couple of suckers to work for me."

Dean glowered at the demon, but a spark of hope had ignited in his chest.

"Are you saying that you're gonna heal Sam?" he asked.

"And the light bulb goes on at last!" Crowley exclaimed sarcastically.

"Okay, well he's in the ICU."

While Dean did not trust Crowley, he was beginning to suspect that the demon was Sam's only chance. But then Crowley laughed, and Dean's stomach sank.

"You didn't think I'd do it for free, did you?" he asked.

"You'd be doing it so that we'd keep working for you," said Dean. "How exactly is that free?"

"You were working for me in exchange for Sam's soul. You'll have to do something else in exchange for Sam's life."

Of course. Demons always wanted more. Dean was tempted to go tell Crowley to stuff himself, but they both knew that he wouldn't.

"What did you have in mind?" he ground out. Crowley smiled.

"Well, our original contract just went up until Sam's soul was returned. How about we extend that a bit?"

"And by 'a bit', you mean…?"

"A lifetime," said Crowley, mocking tone gone. "You and your brother working for me exclusively until the day your reapers come for you."

"No," said Dean. "No way."

"Oh, don't be like that. We both know it's Sammy's only chance."

"Sam wouldn't want me to save him for a lifetime of being a demon flunky."

"His soul would probably disagree with you. My offer to get it out of the cage still stands. Service to me is a lot better than what Michael and Luci are doing to it right now."

Dean grimace. Crowley had him there. Dean was still haunted by his own memories of hell, and he knew that what Sam was going through was a thousand times worse, and he had already been down there four times longer than Dean had.

Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to start reciting an exorcism and hope for the best, but…

"And after we die?" he whispered.

"Whether you go upstairs or down is up to the powers that be," said Crowley. "I won't claim your souls for hell."

They both fell silent, and Dean considered the offer. It was a crappy one, there was no doubt about it.

He looked over at the space where Sam's bed had been. He blinked away the memory of his brother's limp body arching upwards with the defibrillator.

"I've got a counteroffer," he muttered thickly.

"I'm listening."

"You get me. Just me, for the rest of my life. I'll do whatever the hell you want me to. But you give Sam his soul back, and then…and then you let him die."

Crowley blinked in surprise, and then his face stretched into a sickening smile.

"Why, Dean," he said slowly. "I'm shocked. After all the effort you've put into keeping gigantor alive, you want me to send Sammy to the other side?"

"Going upstairs early is better than letting him condemn his soul by working for you." Because Dean had no illusions about that. He knew that a lifetime of serving Crowley would result in him doing things that would earn him another ticket to the pit. He would not let that happen to Sam.

Crowley studied him carefully.

"If I agree to that, I lose half of my investment," he said calculatingly.

"Well, if you don't agree to it, you lose your entire investment," Dean retorted. "Your call."

"Fine," said Crowley after a moment of consideration.

Dean's heart squeezed painfully, and a cold sweat broke out across his skin. He did not regret his choice, but he knew that his life was going to be utterly miserable from here on out. And he was going to lose his brother.

"Well?" said Dean when the demon did nothing. "What are you waiting for? Go get Sam's soul."

"Oh no," said Crowley. "That's not how this works. We seal the deal, then I hold up my end."

"I won't back out," said Dean angrily.

"Oh, I'm sure of that," Crowley told him with a smirk. "Especially after we seal it with a kiss."

Dean opened his mouth to tell the demon that there was no way in hell that was going to happen, but he did not get the words out.

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said a low, angry voice.

Dean had never been so happy to see Castiel in his life. Or angry.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"I'm here now," the angel said. Then he turned to Crowley. "Go."

Dean expected the king of hell to argue, but the demon just vanished without a word. Castiel strode to Dean, placing a hand on his abdomen. The hunter instantly felt better, the pain and sickness of the last few weeks vanishing. He pulled in a deep breath, reveling in the lack of nausea and discomfort.

"You've always had some timing, Cas," he said, looking gratefully up at his friend.

He was still annoyed that the angel had let things get this far, but as Cas had said, he was here now, and he could fix things. Besides, he had just saved Dean from a fate far worse than liver failure.

But Castiel was not looking too great. As soon as the angel had finished healing Dean, he stumbled back and fell into the chair beside the bed, his face strained.

"Hey man, are you okay?" asked Dean in concern. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting to his feet, somewhat unsteady after days of lying down.

"I'm fine," Castiel assured him, though he sounded exhausted. "But the constant fighting in heaven has weakened me."

"Do you still have enough juice to heal Sam?" asked Dean, kicking himself internally for not making sure that the angel took care of his brother first.

"I should," said Castiel. "Give me a moment."

"Right." Dean felt bad for pressing his friend, but Sam's life was on the line here.

He used the time that Castiel was resting to change into the clothes that he had been admitted in. They were his sleep sweats, and not exactly clean, but they were better than the hospital gown that he had been wearing for the past few days. When he emerged from the bathroom he had used for changing, Castiel was looking slightly better. Well, he was standing at least.

"Things are that bad up there, huh?" Dean asked sympathetically, taking in the angel's pale and unsteady countenance. Castiel nodded grimly.

"I was in the middle of losing a battle to one of Raphael's squadrons when you started calling. I could not abandon my supporters, and it was days before the fighting stopped. But Dean…I _am_ sorry that you and Sam had to go through this."

"It's fine, Cas," said Dean, letting go of some of the last resentment that he had been clinging to. The guy just looked so damn _tired_. "I get it."

"I sincerely doubt that, but thank you," said Castiel. "You should be fine now. I healed all of your wounds from the surgery. Your liver is still Sam's, but your body won't try to reject it. You shouldn't have to take any medication."

"That's great," said Dean, another worry lifted from his mind. But there was still another fear nagging at him. "And, uh…any traces of, of demon blood?"

Castiel shook his head.

"There were, but I was able to purge the taint from your system before it took hold."

Dean sighed in relief, running a hand through his hair. He had not realized how worried about that he had been.

"Good," he said. "Now how about we go save my little brother?"

Castiel nodded and followed Dean out of the hospital room and down the hall to the ICU. The nurses were stunned to see Dean up and walking around, showing no sign that he'd had major surgery just a few days earlier. He thought about pretending to be his own twin, but he did not think they would buy it. Although, he had used more ridiculous stories in the past. But just as one of the nurses was standing to question him, Castiel waved a hand at her. She sat back down, and all of the other nurses looked away, returning to their work as if Dean and Castiel were not there.

"What did you do to them?" Dean asked, waving a hand in front of a nurse's face, turning to stare at his friend when he got no response.

"I simply warped their perceptions," the angel explained carelessly. "They will not remember seeing us."

"Huh," said Dean. That was a neat trick. He wondered when Cas had learned it.

"Shall we?" asked Castiel, gesturing towards Sam's room.

"Yeah, of course."

Dean and the angel walked into the ICU cubicle, and the feeling in Dean's gut was like waking up from his surgery all over again. Sam looked even worse than he had before. His face was pale and blank, and if that were not bad enough, he had a tube shoved down his throat instead of the basic nasal cannula.

Castiel stepped forward, placing a hand on Sam's forehead. There was a hum of energy, and then Cas broke away. Dean helped his friend to a chair.

"He's healthy now," the angel said once he had slumped into the seat.

Dean glanced at his brother. The younger man looked better, but his eyes were still firmly closed.

"Then why isn't he waking up?" he asked. Castiel sighed.

"Dean…" he began, and the hunter was not a fan of that tone. Castiel looked up at him, seeming to flounder for words. "Don't you think it might be best if…if we just left Sam asleep?"

"What?" asked Dean, and Castiel flinched away from the harshness in his voice.

"Dean, the last time I saw Sam, he was out of control, and I doubt that he's gotten any better in my absence. He's dangerous when he's awake, and we both know it. I just think it might be easiest if we left him in a safe, controlled coma until we figure out how to return his soul to him."

"Listen to me, Cas," said Dean, and the angel sighed, clearly knowing what the rest of his response was going to be. "Sam was hurt because of me. He went out of his way to risk his life to save me. I would have died of liver failure before you bothered to show up if it hadn't been for him. He's still my brother, and we are not gonna leave him like this."

"Dean, you were going to let Crowley kill him."

"Because I thought that was the only way to save his soul, not because I didn't want him around!"

Castiel said nothing, and Dean sighed.

"Just fix him, Cas. Please.

The angel looked up at Dean for a few moments, then it was his turn to sigh again. He stood, resting his hand on Sam's head again. This time the hunter's eyes flew open.

He gagged on the tube in his throat, but before Dean could press the call button to have someone come take it out, Sam had grabbed the damn thing and ripped it out himself. Dean winced, but Sam just coughed and cleared his throat like it was nothing.

"Cas?" he said when he caught sight of the angel. "Nice of you to finally show up."

Castiel rolled his eyes, then turned back to Dean.

"It's been a pleasure," he said, before vanishing with a ruffle of invisible feathers.

Dean should never have taught him sarcasm. But he had more important issues at hand.

"Hey," he said to his little brother. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Was Cas healing me? What happened?" He examined Dean closely for the first time since he woke up. "You look better."

"Yeah, I'm good as new," said Dean. "So are you, by the way. You had some complications, but you're fine now. Nearly gave me a heart attack, but you're fine."

Sam sat up, stretching experimentally. Dean felt a final surge of relief when his little brother showed no signs of pain.

"You were worried about me," Sam stated, staring at Dean.

Of course Dean had been worried about him, but he just shrugged. Displays of affection were not really in his nature, and with Sam's current condition, that went for both of them.

"We should probably get going," he said instead. "The doctors might be a little curious about our mystery healings."

Sam snorted.

"Yeah, well if I knew Cas was gonna show up, I wouldn't have insisted that we go to the trouble of a hospital and transplant surgery in the first place."

Dean grimaced. He had not been planning on telling Sam about the severity of his complications, but he could not let Sam think that his sacrifice had been for nothing.

"Sam, the doctors gave me three or four days, tops, when I was diagnosed," he began.

"Yeah…"

"Cas showed up about twenty minutes ago."

"Okay…"

"Sam, our surgeries were a week ago."

"What?" asked Sam incredulously. "And I've been asleep this whole time?"

"Yeah. A blood clot traveled to your brain. You were in a coma."

Sam shook his head.

"When exactly were you gonna tell me about that?" he asked.

"You're fine now, Sam," Dean repeated impatiently. "The point is, you saved my life. If it hadn't been for you, I would've died before Cas could save me."

"Oh," was all Sam said.

"Yeah. Now what do you say we get out of here?"

"I'd say that's a good idea," said Sam with a shrug. "As soon as you find me some clothes that don't have an open back."

Dean eyed his brother's hospital gown with a snort. He went back to his room to get Sam's clothes, and then the two of them snuck out of the hospital and into the parking garage with practiced ease. As Dean slid behind the wheel of his beloved impala, he took a deep breath.

"I don't know how much this'll mean to you," he said slowly. "But I will never forget what you did for me. And I will do whatever it takes to get you your soul back."

"Yeah, I know you will," said Sam after a pause. "And you're welcome, Dean."

Dean gave his brother a small smile. It still would not be the same until they got Sam's soul back, but it made the waiting easier knowing that soul or not, the man beside him was still his brother.

* * *

_**A/N: **Thanks for reading! I would really appreciate some feedback._


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